Barely making it home after the horror experienced in house number 14, Leo sat for a long time, just staring at the wall. Its grayness gaped like an abyss. There were no thoughts; the silence was deafening. No feelings, and their absence pressed on his chest. No hope—its shadow had dissolved in the air. His body was heavy as stone, his legs trembled from fatigue, and his mind was as empty as the dead city outside. He didn't move, frozen in this stupor. Each breath came with effort.
Memories of house No. 14 tormented him, their images flickering like a black-and-white film, but he pushed them away, unwilling to return to that nightmare.
Struggling to get up on wobbly legs, he approached his makeshift bar—his pride, the place where he could always forget. Each step echoed in the empty bunker. Without looking, he grabbed a bottle; its glass chilled his fingers. It was brandy, its amber color promising false salvation. Not bothering to find a glass, he started drinking straight from the neck. The alcohol burned his throat, but its warmth spread through his veins until his head spun and the world swam before his eyes.
And then something happened that had never happened to him before: without undressing, in dirty, wet clothes, he passed out, collapsing onto the bed like a broken mechanism. The brandy fell from his hand, spilling onto the floor, leaving a large, pungent-smelling puddle.
The next day, he didn't go on his usual supply run; their necessity dissolved in the apathy that had set in. He didn't clean the solar panels, and their faint hum died down. He didn't check the greenhouse; its sprouts withered in his memory. He didn't clean up yesterday's bottles from the floor; their glass gleamed in the semi-darkness. And he didn't have dinner; his appetite was gone, its loss a grim victory. To go through what he'd experienced yesterday in house No. 14 and then come home and have a proper meal—that was too much. His soul couldn't bear such contrast; the weight of what he'd seen pressed on his shoulders.
Children—he and Anna wanted two, no, three... The memory pierced his foggy brain like a knife. In two gulps, he finished the whiskey left from yesterday; the bottle trembled in his weak, shaking hands. It darkened slightly in his eyes; the room swayed, its walls tilting like a ship in a storm.
Walking to the corner of the bunker where the washbasin and a small mirror were installed, Leo looked at his reflection. From the mirror, a figure stared back at him with a completely wild, overgrown face on which eyes inflamed from alcohol burned like embers. The figure held a bottle of whiskey in its hands, and a huge revolver stuck out from its belt. A real Wild West outlaw. All he was missing was a hat and a few missing teeth!
In the old days, people would recoil in fear at the sight of such a figure and try to hide quickly or cross to the other side of the street. But not the mad ones. Those bastards don't care if you're a tough guy with a revolver or a sweet housewife. Those assholes would tear you apart in a second and wouldn't even say hello!
And suddenly, he burst out laughing; the laughter was sharp and unpleasant. After all, out there, outside, answers to all his questions awaited. He just had to want them, and he could get them.
Wait for me out there, he thought sarcastically. Yeah right, wait. I'll just have another drink for courage and come right out to you.
He shuddered; his body tensed. He gritted his teeth; their grinding echoed in his ears.
Wait for me out there. Out there. And why not? Why not go out? That's the surest way to find out what's happening in this city. The idea swirled in his head like a whirlwind; its simplicity was frightening. Laughing at it, he pushed himself up and, slouching, swaying, approached the bar again; each step was unsteady.
And why not?—the thoughts turned with difficulty. Why all these complications when it's enough just to swing open the door, take a few steps, and it will all be over? He shivered; a chill ran down his back. He poured himself almost a whole bottle of brandy into a half-liter beer glass; its amber liquid trembled.
Why hide in this bunker like a rat trapped in a cage? I'll never find anyone alive anyway. The thought cut like a blade; its truth was relentless. Leo heavily sank onto a chair; his body coiled like a spring.
That's the way it is, Leo. Just sit like a rat in your hole until they catch you sooner or later. Make yourself comfortable and don't worry about anything—you're guarded by a crowd of mad ones ready to tear apart anything alive and the world's strongest army, which for some reason wants you. The self-irony was bitter, its taste mixing with the brandy.
So let's drink today, remember the lost world with a kind word and a bottle of alcohol!—his face twisted into a grimace of indescribable hatred; its heat burned his skin.
Bastards! I won't give up anyway, that's not why I survived! Sure, I'm hiding here like a cornered rat, but I'm a rat with teeth and well-armed. In an animal rage, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the table and threw it against the bunker wall. The bottle shattered with a clang, its fragments scattering across the floor. Feeling a sharp pain, he stared dumbly at the trickle of blood running down his leg, mixing with the brandy. A ricocheting fragment had cut him; its red color slowly blended with the alcohol.
They'd probably be happy if I came out to them myself?—he thought; a mad idea flickered like a spark. He liked its simplicity and barely restrained himself from going outside right now, waving to a convoy passing on the road, and listening to their surprised shouts at his audacity. Idiotic laughter trembled in his throat.
Leo unsteadily stopped, swaying, and squeezed his eyes shut; darkness enveloped him. A shiver ran through his body, and cold stiffened his muscles.
Get a grip, he told himself, his voice weak and uncertain. Better bandage your leg; among all the fancy ways to die, the dumbest would be death from blood loss.
He made it to the washbasin where he had set up a small infirmary, his steps weak and unsteady. He carefully cleaned the cut; sharp pain shot through his leg, but Leo endured, gasping for air when iodine hit the wound. He somehow bandaged it. The cut was deep and painful; his breath caught. Sweat beaded on his forehead; its salty taste lingered on his dry lips.
Should have a smoke, he realized; the thought was murky. Not long ago, he didn't smoke and disapproved of the habit. The smell of cigarettes, once alien and disgusting, now brought relief. Approaching the backpack where he kept packs of cigarettes gathered from wrecked cars, he took one—its paper was slightly damp, like everything in this city where it rained almost always—and lit it. Smoke rose to the ceiling like a thin bluish thread.
Should gather more alcohol, what if it runs out before I go mad from this damned loneliness?—he thought; his gaze was empty. But that was unnecessary; he had already gathered about a hundred bottles—stacking them in the bunker corner, and some he'd even hidden in his and Anna's bedroom...
Anna. He gritted his teeth; her name cut his soul. Heavily getting up and grabbing a bottle of spirits, staggering, he somehow made it to their bedroom; its silence was terrifying. Staring with a fixed gaze at the happy photographs hung on the walls, he remembered. In this one, they took a selfie on their first date; her smile shone. In another, their beach vacation; the sound of waves still echoed in his memory. Here they celebrated in a restaurant a successful deal Anna had closed; her happy laughter and plans for the future echoed in his head.
Well, you got lonely, Leo. You should have met up with Tom and had a drink together, like in the good old days... Oh right, Tom is still sitting in his car, staring with dead eyes at his smashed garage... Ah, Tom, old friend, how I miss you now.—Longing mixed with self-irony was bitter, its taste mixing with tobacco smoke.
Walking through the empty, damp house, pouring himself whiskey on the go—the bottle he'd grabbed at random turned out to be Scotch—he grimaced, hitting his cut leg on the edge of a table. From the pain, he set the bottle down. Taking a glass from the glass cabinet in the living room, he filled it and slumped into an armchair.
Taking a big gulp in one go, he winced; the alcohol instantly burned his throat. When will I finally drink enough to stop thinking about what's happening outside the walls of this house?—the thought twisted like smoke.
I hate everyone, Leo finally affirmed.
The room swayed, swam around him. Fog clouded his eyes. He looked now at the glass, now at the window closed with steel shutters. His head lolled from side to side. Those outside drove around in their armored vehicles, searching, killing. And others wandered aimlessly until they were killed or killed each other.
Poor mad ones, he thought. All walking out there, poor wretches, abandoned, don't even know why...
Aha!—he wagged a raised index finger before his face; laughter trembled in his throat. Friends! I could have friends! I could befriend them!!! I'll approach you, and we'll all discuss the problem of relations between mad ones and those who hunt them together, like in pre-election debates! If, of course, that problem concerns them themselves—not sure about the mad ones, but the military are definitely concerned. In short, I'll formulate the main solution to the problem: you shoot and kill everything living, and you others just wander around and tear apart everything that moves! You have so much in common, so let's end this senseless enmity!—the idea was mad but interesting.
He again took a long drink from the glass of whiskey; its warmth spread in the cold, damp room. Leo gloomily snorted.
You've worn me out, Leo, with your whining. You've worn me out, his voice was weak. The dampness from the constant rain had stiffened his legs, and he could no longer get up. That's the trouble with immoderate drinking: immunity developed. Enlightenment and clarity no longer came. Intoxication didn't bring happiness; alcohol no longer allowed him to forget.
The room smoothed out and stopped. The roar of engines from the street reached his ears again; their rumble cut the silence. His Adam's apple moved; his breathing became irregular; his heart beat faster. Go out! Out there my friends are waiting, and also women, their dresses open, their bodies await my touch...—the thought swirled in his head.
Damn! Damn, damn, damn...—the words slipped from his lips; despair burned his skin. As if someone else's, his hand slowly rose to his fly and abruptly fell again. His knuckles turned white, and his fist, like a clot of hatred, heavily dropped onto his cut leg.
Feeling sharp pain, he sharply inhaled the musty air of the room and sensed the disgustingly sharp smell of gas, which had long since dissipated but whose remnants lingered in abandoned buildings and sometimes wafted through the streets.
Gas. The smell of gas everywhere. In clothes, in linen, in food, and even in the whiskey—wow, I'm on a roll today, whiskey with gas—Leo Cormack's new cocktail! Available in all city bars.—The joke was clearly a failure, but he burst into laughter.
Unsteadily rising to his alcohol-weakened legs, he walked around the room; his steps were shaky. What was I going to do today? The same as usual: monitor—whiskey—isolation—women. Yes! Those women—in torn dresses, with white, pale bodies, flaunting their half-naked forms...
Hey, no, buddy: these are NOT THOSE WOMEN.—A broken moan of despair burst from his chest. Be thrice damned, where are you driving around out there???? What are you waiting for? I'm sitting right here in the living room during the day. Do you really think I'll come out and surrender to you willingly?—Anger boiled in his blood.
Maybe, maybe.—He realized he was heading toward the door; its silhouette beckoned. I'm coming to you...
Outside, the chattering of a drone was heard; its sound cut the silence. Spinning around, he abruptly hid behind a wall. His fists clenched so hard that blood appeared on his knuckles. A tremor of powerlessness shook him; his teeth chattered. Waiting for it to pass, he returned to the refuge and with a groan fell onto the bed.
His hands twitched involuntarily.
Oh, god, when will this end, when?—a whisper escaped his lips. Despair had become his constant companion.